


TW Femslash Week ficlets

by TenWoolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dancers, Erica is a mechanic, F/F, Femslash, Gods, Good people raising their babies right, Malia is a bartender, Multi, Pregnancy, Robotics, Robots, Teen Wolf Femslash Week, additional babies, alcohol mention, college mention, experimental dancers, twfemslashweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:13:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short ficlets inspired by the TWFemslash Week for Aug 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Favorite Ship; Malia/Kira "80 Proof"

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a lot of trouble writing so I'm kind of using Femslash Week as an excuse to make short terrible works just for the sake of making them.
> 
> Definitely check out the [TWFemslash tumblr](http://twfemslash.tumblr.com/) for more features of the week from a crap ton of fandom creators~

Coyote Ugly is the worst fucking movie to ever have been approved by the motion picture association of America.

Malia hadn't ever even seen it and the fact still rang true. Maria Bello herself could come up and convince her otherwise and it'd still end with Malia ripping her face off.

Openly being a coyote and a bartender had its separate difficulties without an outdated film ruining the image. Not once did she take her top off at work, or pour water on a patron, or dance on the bar since it was a goddamned health inspection nightmare. 

While at work, no matter what the owner of Hale Fire said about it being okay to express herself, she was human. Plain and simple. She didn't turn in to anything except a raging bitch when someone took her parking spot. 

Because who could keep up with the same explanation every night with personal identities. It's easy to say "yeah, down the hall, last door on the left" to give directions to the bathroom but explaining how she became a coyote was a more complicated and pained story. 

So to anyone bored enough to ask, she grew up in New Hampshire because no one was every from New Hampshire and no one could ever find It on a map.

The first few times she mistakenly let it slip were always disastrous. Some drunkard would over hear and start going off about how everyone was a shifter nowadays because it was cool and hip, not that they had existed for thousands of years before 'trend' was even a word. And the inevitable display of disgust at being anything but a wolf always followed. Everyone in her immediate family was either a human or a wolf, lucky her for breaking the mold.

But in the event she kept her mouth shut, it came with perks. The perks of never being asked "what are you?" or a stranger buying her a drink solely out of sympathy, it was something to apologize for. Malia started learning early on to remain stoic and clandestine, uncaring except for how she doled out change.

Which was a worthwhile approach. The regulars knew her by name and were only regulars for a few months. For the most part, staying silent seemed like the better route.

Unless someone who just couldn't be left unbothered came in.

Which is exactly how the entire staff of Hale Fire met Kira.

A Thursday night, few hours before last call, and an exhausted girl with no shoes on, save for a single boot three times her size in hand, wandered in to the bar. She looked absolutely spent, steam rolled over twice and pummeled by boxing mitts.

Dragging herself over to an empty seat at the bar, she set the boot down beside her and draped herself on the marble counter top, ignoring the puddle her elbow was stuck in, making a slow forming spot through her coat.

Malia was a sucker for a lost cause, gravitating over with a silly one liner, "Y'know we prefer shoes to be anywhere else but the furniture."

The girl didn't look up, just kept staring forward at the rows of liquor bottles, and without really moving, slapped the boot off the stool where it fell to the floor in a rubbery clatter. She sniffled, frowning even more than she had been.

"Ok, why don't I get you a drink?" Malia suggested woefully, pulling out a bottle of cheap tequila and two shot glasses.

"I don't have any cash," the girl replied.

"It's on the house, drink with me," Malia pushed the tiny themed glass in front of her and picked up the other ready to toast. "To crappy days."

The girl stared her down for a second, her mouth sinking deeper in to a painful glower. But she propped herself up, grabbing the glass and meeting the lip of Malia's. They both downed them and grimaced at the taste, tequila still tasting like tequila.

"Right yeah, that puts hair on your chest," Malia coughed, never getting use to the sudden flavour of the rough stuff. "So, what's your story?"

The girl sighed and stared again, the same glower unmoving and stone clad.

"You don't have to tell me but I'm gonna keep feeding you shots until you do. And this is bottom shelf, we could be here all night, " She said, nearly heaving at the thought.

The girl just huffed through her nose like an angry puppy, "You ever just had a really bad day?"

"Bad day in a bad week or worst day of your life?" Malia asked, pouring two queued shots just in case.

"Like the worst day of an entire year," She said, sniffling again, obvious in the low light that she had been crying. "Like the absolute worst day of a whole year of your life."

"That does sound bad," Malia agreed. "What bit you today?"

"My dad had a heart attack," she said.

"Ouch."

"Two weeks ago."

"Still ouch."

"And I was out of the country when it happened. So by the time I got back home, he was out of the hospital. So all my aunts told me I didn't need to visit to make sure he was okay."

"Ouch…"

"And when I went to see my girlfriend, we were supposed to have a reunion dinner but figured I'd leave to see my dad. So when I get back to our apartment she's there with her ex.

"Yeah ouch."

"And she was wearing my pajamas with the little pineapples on them…"

"That's just rude."

"Yeah…"

Malia waited for her to continue, "Okay but, how did you lose your shoes."

The girl doesn't reply, straightening herself up and going for the second shot glass in one clumsy gulp, the amber drizzle running down one side of her lips. She slammed down the glass, jittering twice as much as the first time like a bolt of lightning went through her.

"Take it easy," Malia soothed, moving the glass she poured for herself out of arms reach. "You're gonna get through this, girl."

"Kira," The girl said like a line, "My name's Kira."


	2. Canon divergence/universe alteration - Erica/Kira "Glittering One"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was very drunk when I wrote this and I think I misunderstood the idea of 'universe alteration'.

There's an old notion of the love of foxes to wolves, the pristine kinship of canid species who ran together through the infinite span of twilight like day would never become night.

Foxes were messengers of the good god Inari Ookami, a wolf deity watching over grain and artisans with the snow white purity of song in her tails. Her praiseful eyes looked on while the kitsune carried her bidding, good little soldiers passing on through living and dead when spirits were as restless as their padding paws.

And when foxes wandered too far, past the reaches of twilight and the kingdom of the east, to where the western fronts had different beliefs and gods to kiss their foreheads, new troubles arose for them.

In the west, Inari could not watch over them or the spirits they found. In their teeth they carried the dead whispers of kin and happy maidens, chased by the dogs who didn't have the presence of a god in their tails. And when a fox died at the impure teeth of another, their souls let on to wander, collected by their brethren.

And other deities took pity in their chase, badgering off dogs or men by taking the forms of demon hound or bear with red eyes like the Devil they feared from before literature. These gods would warn messengers to stray back home, that tempting their fate in places where each name was woven in gold on wooden looms was meant for nothing but mayhem.

But a fox as young as the Shōchō period with grey in her tail, she couldn't feel her feet anywhere but in the west where a maiden had saved her from death. Her name was Kira Kira, named by Inari for her glittering eyes.

She had lept from the stones of the spring, looking for fish or vole or offering to river gods, when a languid girl in soft linen came to soak her feet in the water. Kira Kira watched on behind the guise of cat tails, employing their wavering stalks to hide her. And as the girl took off her sheath of white robe so that she could bathe, Kira Kira looked on in attention.

Kira Kira could take the form of a human girl but had never dared, refusing to shed the fur of her fox skin and roam about in bare flesh. But the artistic curves of this woman were beautifully ornate and languid, taking on the cold water like a milk bath.

So Kira Kira tried, shifting the visage of her fur to the skin of a human, modeling herself after the girl, getting down the spine and shoulders and hands and feet. Her skin was more refined and her hair more black than tar. But her beauty was comparable to the girl clothed in the cruel breeze of early winter.

And when she approached the girl, curly haired and breathless, she didn't flinch or run but took her like the encounter was a thing of normalcy for her kind. In the girl's arm, Kira Kira sunk in and spread her fingers over her curves and laid her lips on her skin.

"What women are as gorgeous as you, fair one?" Kira Kira asked in a Romanized tongue.

"The hand maidens of Frigga are all blessed with beauty as appreciated by scholars," she said, cradling the back of Kira Kira's head in her hands, like holding a paper basket.

"And what do they call you," Kira Kira asked, suckling on the flesh of her shoulder.

"Erica," She breathed in a heavy exhaled, "Aye you?"

"Hmm, the Glittering One," She replied in best this new tongue could translate.

They stood in the licking water, cold thoughts of frost on their calves in naked form, mouths reaching for the tender caress of sensitive skin to their fingers and tongues.


	3. Future;Allison/Lydia "Good People Raisin' Their Babies Right"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison and Lydia, talkin' bout havin' a baby.
> 
> I don't feel like I really reached for anything in this or got creative;I just really like pregnancy stories.

It's always been the plan to have a baby. Or maybe it's better to call it a dream, not as goal oriented as an ambition. Sometime, in her lifetime, to have a baby. That domesticated dream with a stable career and money for family planning, all of it was for the sake of a baby someday. 

At some point exiting her adolescence, she started taking photos and videos so that she could show her daughter. Her struggles and losses became speeches in her head that could be life lessons in the future. She wanted to remember every great love, every harrowing tragedy, and every soul sucking mistake and be able to phrase them as "when I was your age, something similar happened to me".

It was the back of her head planning that really got to Allison, all the small decisions and ideas that lead to patterns and floor plans. She wanted to be stable and happy and in love when she finally could sit down and build a nest.

And the stupid happy feelings of building a nest with somebody who'd been with her for what felt like the biggest percentage of her life was even better. Making it all happen with Lydia was like a foundation of marble, glossy and unyielding. 

"I still don't know how to feel about it," Lydia had said the day they first went to their OB. "I don't know what I'll look like as a mom.

"Most people don't, it's normal. But you'll know when we see her, I swear," Allison said, lying down next to her, both of their hands ghosting over her exposed belly. She was flat, still in the period where they were unsure it even took, too early to test.

"Or him," Lydia corrected. "When did you first start to really want it?"

"When I was 8. When my grandmother died she left me my mother's toys. There was a baby doll that looked exactly like I did in all the old scrap books. My dad said she must have dressed me up to look like her old dolls. But I really loved that doll, she looked she was supposed to be mine."

"That's really cute. Do you still have it?" Lydia asked, rubbing their feet together and pulling the blankets.

"It got lost in one of the moves. But I have a photo of it," She replied.

"You and your photos," Lydia teased, sinking in to the crook of Allison's neck, running her nose up to her ear. "Show it to me tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Allison trailed off, exhaling a content sigh. "What do you think she'll look like?"

"He might have your dad's hair line," Lydia chided. "Or my mom's real nose….If it's a girl I hope she has my hair."

"I hope she has your hair too." 

"You're so fixated on it being a girl. Promise me you won't be disappointed if we have a boy," Lydia said quietly in to her neck.

"I promise," Allison whispered, making circles with her index finger over her edge of her hip, wondering if every curdling sensation in her stomach meant something more.


	4. Polyamory; Allison, Lydia, Cora "Communication Through Movement"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the answer, is to become a dancer

They started dancing without realizing what they were doing could be a performance. 

The communication of movement between then was what sparked Lydia suggesting they take classes. It's what made her tie her hair back flat, too concerned that it'd splash in her face when she swung back so violently to do slow cautious cartwheels. She wore so little that she still couldn't breathe when she was scared of tripping in pink sneakers, unimaginable to do twists and turns in heels, 

She didn't feel confident until slamming her feet to the ground became a rhythm. She left herself move without music and took on the gyrations of unchoreographed movement.  
It was enough to insight a war in her, calibrating muscles to bend on a whim and keep upright when she started to feel feint. When she was sweating, good and tired, nothing felt dangerous. She dipped herself to the ground without thinking the linoleum could crack her skull and her hair came loose like a fire pit overturning its embers.

It was liberating, moving to the expression of what looked and felt like more than dance.

When Allison took hold of Lydia's hips, surmised to follow and move with her, she didn't understand when Lydia broke away like she wanted to run. It didn't make sense until Lydia kept light on her toes, beckoning with gestures for Allison to follow her. Not to follow her steps or direction, but to act on the expression of chasing her. 

Their dance, immortalized in that studio lined with mirrors, was a chase. For all the time they knew one another, held love in their palms and used affection like sips of cool water, they stayed at arms length. They didn't leave when they couldn't speak, they didn't use anger to distance themselves. They stayed at the measure of a kiss, where fights ended in short descriptions of exhaustion. Their frustration was too exhausting and make up sex or kisses became a calming salve.

But they danced at a distance, meeting together like identical magnets too enraged to connect. They shifted in twined and twisted in the gravity that wanted them to meet, fire in their hands when they came close enough to feel the licks of solar flares, see the sun spots in the heat of their faces.

And when they felt like they were ready, they met Cora, their mediator. Where Allison and Lydia couldn't touch, Cora was there to connect them and convince them of their movements. Where they copied in sync, turning upon themselves in unfurling rhythms, Cora joined to add dissonance. She was the spice to their cake and the fuel to their fire. When her hands went too far in to the length of their comfort, she didn't pull back out of fear; she steadied to keep them close to her.

Then they were there, the smooth tile floor of a gallery, an audience of wine happy art enthusiasts to cheer on their first display, already proud. Their audience clapped wildly while balancing plastic cups to their chests and keeping cameras up.

Three girls, all dressed in red, took lazy stances like they were too tired to stand. Their characters were too close to themselves to describe and too abstract to connect to. Their kinetic body language said that they were envious of the other, translating every movement to mimic the ones before. 

Then they collapsed to the floor, the clatter of the elbows and knees making contact with each other, buckling in to make a circular pattern, a mandala made of arms, legs, and the sweated brows of spent faces. Their graceful heavings were awkward and lurid, portraying the relief of being together as they beat the ground with fists and feet to work up a loud and fading drum.

Looking up to loft, a collection of people staring down and watching their stillness with a breathless appreciation, they caught eyes too curious to look away and instantly forgot their faces. They wouldn't remember the girl playing with her hair, the old man holding on to the banister with white knuckles, the boy talking to his date in a hushed and misused vernacular. 

They were worried no one would understand the message, that languid movements coordinated based on feelings and balance wouldn't make any sense. They were worried no one would get it.

"They won't. But they don't need to, we're doing it for us," Lydia had said. "They don't understand until we tell them."

And the excitement of acceptance came before silence of their fists could even settle.


	5. Rare Pair; Allison/Kira "NYT Best Seller"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is writing everyday hard

The thing about the New York Time's Best Seller list is that it's coveted but hard to get on.

Slapping the sticker on front cover of a novel or biography suddenly gives it meaning behind the freshly cultivated reviews praising it, mostly by other New York Time's Best Selling authors. It's unmentioned how an author very suddenly goes from being an 'author' to a 'New York Time's Best Selling author'.

But there Kira was, sitting in a kitchen that wasn't hers, reading a goddamned best seller for the sake of a class she hated and a major she regretted. She wasn't even one to hate books, it was just the particular subject of "this ones doesn't deserve its praise and it keep mentioning the size of every single breast". Which not many pieces of literature can really attest to achieving.

She'd spent most of her Sunday catching up on it, making notes in the margins with a pencil, having no intention of going back to erase them. Two bowls of someone else's cereal and a pot of coffee in to it, she was at her wit's end.

And it was so consuming that she didn’t really notice when Allison came home for lunch, her door unlocking skills so quiet they were near burglar level. It wasn't until she was rummaging through the refrigerator and poking at tupper ware containers full of lasagna that Kira looked up.

"OH HEY," she said with a start, the hair on her arms standing up. "Sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so early."

"It's past 2 o'clock," Allison said, pulling out one of the containers to reheat.

"Right, yeah, I lost track of time again," Kira said, biting her lip.

"It's fine, you're welcome to stay when you want," Allison said, small and nervous in a way she didn't want it to be noticed.

The tension left a stagnant air, muggy and hard to move through. Kira felt naked in sleep clothes, having bummed around in them all morning without bothering to change. She didn't make a habit out of sleeping over anywhere, but given the amount she was traveling, she kept a spare for a Girl Scout necessity of always being prepared. It made her look over eager, the girl with the overnight who didn't feel shame over pulling out her own tooth brush and pajamas and condoms. She didn't know how to say she wasn't interested in being over eager.

"We're…cool, right?" Kira asked, feeling like she was holding her breath.

"What? Oh, yeah, we're okay. We're fine," Allison replied, brushing it off like it couldn't have been anything but fine. She queued up the timer on the microwave, pressing the 2 an odd number of times.

"Okay, good," Kira said, coughing and letting the word trail on with a long pause. "I thought it'd be hard to deal with but if we're okay that's good."

"Why would it be hard to deal with?" Allison asked. She never caught herself when she was talking to Kira, more direct and short with her phrases. Kira was the one person she didn't act sweet around, overly flirtatious habits falling back. It was a kind of easy irritation she oddly enjoyed.

"Not hard just… hard for me? I'm not…really all that great at this kind of thing," Kira said, feeling flustered and tripping on her words.

"You not being in to me isn't really a kind of thing," Allison said.

"It's not that! I'm…I just don’t expect people to be into me so, I just assume," Kira explained with holes in her reasoning, turning her head away to the vacant blank wall, covered in newly painted mint green.

"Assume what?"

"No, I assume people aren't in to me, is what I mean," Kira said, bringing her hand up to her chin and sinking her teeth into her knuckles, chewing them like a nervous cud. She kept the other hand at her place in her book, distinguishing the pages by crumpling up the edges absentmindedly.

"I don't see why, lots of people like you."

"People who?"

"People like me. But you know that know," Allison said, picking up a red and white glass from the cupboard, running it under the tap.

Allison was as affection as most girls, occasionally taking off the edge of meeting her by way of compliments or her hand on a waist. She was sweet on everybody, too confident to really care anymore. And when it came to girls she felt the kind of ease of tension that wore away with a gulp of wine or the tiny gestures that let her slip in to someone else's personal space. 

She felt that for Kira, no doubt about it. But the amusement she got out of watching her talk without interrupting her was delicious, Allison's resting face apparently choleric. Kira's flailing gestures of excitement over conversations was entertainment enough. And her natural way of leaning back from topics she couldn't commit to was awkward and endearing.

But it's not like Kira didn't take notice of it. She just interrupted Allison's stares as the kind of girl hate you encountered in college, unnecessary social violence done for the hell of it. She didn't think that Allison staring at her in with furrowed brows and pursed, irate lips meant anything. She didn't think she meant a damn thing to her, even when Allison said her name so sweetly and with the soft 'r' caught on her tongue, saying it like her mother.

She didn't think it meant anything when Allison invited her to drink from a half empty bottle of tequila with her, trying to decide whether to put on a dramatic french film or burn through episodes of Ally McBeal. She didn't think Allison would want anything to do with her after Lydia called it a night in their study session. She expected to fall asleep on the couch with her head under throw pillows. She didn’t' expect Allison to plop down beside her, an arm so close to being over her shoulder, like she was intent on keeping Kira for sleeping.  
And then Allison's tipsy hands were braver, laying on Kira's thigh and traveling up to meet her fingers. Kira still didn't know if it meant anything, if it was the ramblings of alcohol or Vonda Shepard's singing or the fuel of experimentation for girls in college. Allison's slow movements petrified her, unable to translate the meaning.

In her silence, she was a cold statue, fearful and motionless, unreactive when Allison brushed her fingers under Kira's chin, turning her head ever so slightly and grazing their lips together. It was otherwise a perfect kiss, unrushed with the static of one person's passion.

Allison should have expected her to feign understanding, to not know how to react given her penchant for confusion. She should have understood Kira didn't bring her things to see her, didn't stay there with the intention of staying with her, didn't know she was the unwilling participant. But it hurt all the same when Kira couldn't blink or speak in full words or say that she was baffled or uninterested.

"Ask me again sometime, okay?" Kira purged the strength she built up in her stomach expelling it so quickly it might leave acid fluttering to her uvula. "I didn't know how you felt before but I get it now. So ask me again sometime."

Allison sucked in her lip, cautious but content, with the coy feeling that made her want to tease. "I don't remember asking you anything, actually."

"Kiss me again sometime. I'll…not freak out next time. If you still want to, I guess," Kira fretted.

Allison came up behind Kira, running her hand down one side of her neck and craning her chin up to meet hers. These acts of affection spoke more than she cared to, dipping down to the gently kiss Kira's open mouth. It was just as unexpected, but the soft push of Kira's lips, keening upward with her own palms abandoning her book to reach for Allison's face, it all made the shy attempts worthwhile. 

And they only broke when they heard the microwave ding.


	6. Favorite Trope; Erica/Malia "Maybe, Baby"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was also 'favorite femslashy scene from the show" and I immediately found difficulty with that. But favorite trope? ALWAYS BABIES.
> 
> every one of my fics needs an tw;alcohol warning and I wonder about that sometimes

For the most part, Malia hadn't really spent any time with Erica when she and her pseudo-fiance made the pilgrimage back to Beacon Hills. And aside from the brief lore placed upon both of them, she didn't actually know anything about either of them.

Stiles sometimes kept them on speaker phone for hours, going back and forth for research and life updates, Derek doing the same at least once a week. It never felt like something Malia would do, even if they were essentially distant family.

She caught a glimmer of Erica each time, the grainy textures of video feed not an honest depiction. The bags under her eyes came through, curly wonder of her hair sometimes caught up in a messy bun or tucked behind her ear. She'd wear loose t-shirts like togas and sip all day from a Garfield mug. 

Malia was so used to seeing her raw and relaxed that when Christmas rolled around and Erica showed up on her door step with a bag full of wrapped gifts and her own unfolded clothes, she thought she was looking at a magazine cover.

"You're Malia, right?" Erica asked, grinning with sharp teeth that could cut class. "Derek said we're doing everything at your place. Is this the right house? You're one of like, three."

"I, yeah, I'm Malia. Are you Erica?" Malia just stuttered, blinking like there had to be fault in her eyesight. She wasn't floored by her beauty or anything, not knocking that the push up bra and Hale-style leather jacket did wonders for her posture. She just looked so different, polished like a gem stone.

"Cool, Stiles talks about you a lot. Can I come in? I'll kick off my boots if you've got nice carpet or whatever," Erica said, swinging off her bag and setting it on the other side of the door jamb.

"Yeah, come in. I've got slippers if you want," Malia said, stepping back and watching as Erica balanced in the door way to take off muscly grey boots. 

"Nah, it's cool I've got my traveling socks on," She replied, flexing in plush white socks in black splotches, the distinctive pink nose of a cow covering all her toes.

Malia cracked a smile, the huff of a giggle stifled under her breath and muttered to herself, "Ellie would love those."

"Is she here? I really wanna meet that jellybean. Stiles has sent me a photo twice a day since you went in to labor," Erica laughed, chucking her shoes by the mismashed pile. "God and I bought her like 6 toys she's not even old enough to play with."

"She's upstairs. You can sit with her while I make lunch. She might recognize your voice. Stiles use be the one watching her every night around 8 when you'd call," Malia explained, beckoning Erica to follow her, taking note of the bounce in her steps as she rushed past up the stairs.

"First room on the left, right?" Erica called out, heading there without waiting for an answer.

Malia didn't follow, thinking it'd be fine to bring up the few sandwiches she'd made in a minute. Ellie wasn't completely on solid foods yet, still preferring to guzzle milk instead of emulsified carrots and peas on an airplane spoon. And she didn't know what Erica preferred but stuck with the wolf-diet notion of ham sandwiches with slices of tomatoes.

She stacked everything up on a Martha Stewart-esque tray that she wasn't proud of owning and made her way up to the second floor, pushing open Ellie's 

But when she saw Erica huddled over the crib making dramatic fake angry faces at the baby, who had a giant chunk of her hair wedged in her iron clad grip, Malia couldn't help but laugh.

"I should have mentioned that she's obsessed with hair right now," She explained, putting down the tray by the changing table. "She won't let go unless you sing to her or make her laugh."

"I've been trying these grumpy faces so I look like Derek but they're not working," Erica said, pulling down the sides of her mouth with her fingers and wrinkling her nose.

Malia laughed again, a little cackle she didn't think she had in her, and it was the trick that got Ellie to let go. She waved her little hands and made hooty noises at the sound of her mother laughing. 

"Oooh ho ho, thank you baby," Erica said, pulling her hair back slowly and tieing it in a tail with a band on her wrist. She immediately took off her coat and lightly set it on the floor, getting the pointy bits off her shoulders. Then she reached in to the crib with bear arms and pulled Ellie out of the crib with the most gentle and cautious grip. "Ooooh, that's better baby, good to meet you."

Erica balanced her on her hip, not minding when Ellie tried to kick up her stomach and got her foot caught in her tank top. Ellie was fine with this, laying her head down on Erica's shoulder and going along for the ride.

"She's so perfect," Erica said, "How did you two dummies make a kid this perfect?"

"Drunken sad Valentine's Day," Malia joked.

"He says all the time that you two aren't together. That's true right? Not him just getting out of stuff?" Erica asked, gingerly stamping kisses to Ellies forehead.

"We're not anything but parents. He wanted to get married but we hadn't been dating for five years and I said no. And this was also when he was still figuring himself out, too. Didn't want anybody else to be the dad, though, and he didn't either," Malia explained, in such a relaxed tone it seemed like she'd said it a hundred times. 

"Good on you both. It takes a village anyway, right? If Stiles isn't gabbing about her Derek is. And Scott doesn't shut up about how he and Kira are trying, it's annoying. Like, shut up and keep me out of it until she's pregnant, I don't wanna hear about her cycles," Erica chided.

"He does talk about it a lot, actually," Malia replied, belly full of butterflies at how comfortable she felt talking to Erica. 

Erica flinched when Ellie started to make crying yelps in her ear, "Oh somebody's not happy."

"She's just hungry," Malia said, going to take her from Erica and having Ellie immediately pulling at the collar of her shirt. "No sweetie, let's try airplane food! No, Ellie, oh please. Alright."

"Airplane food?" Erica asked as she watched Malia sit down in the white rocking chair in the corner, settling herself down as she lifted up the bottom of her shirt. She only looked away for a second, not really knowing how she should react to breastfeeding.

"She has a spoon that she-Well she doesn't care, but I like it because if she hits herself in the face with it she doesn't end up crying. Stiles plays the airplane game when he gets her to eat. I'm just the cow, my boobs aren't as fun to play games with," Malia says, leading Ellie's face to her nipple and pulling up the rest of her shirt so it wouldn't cover her head. She opted to go without a bra on days she was alone with Ellie after the first time it was impossible to get off with a baby screaming at her.

"You did say she liked cows," Erica said, leaning her elbow on the crib.

Malia made a face, easy joke at her expense but glad they could make jokes together. "I brought up sandwiches if you want any," She said smiling, pointing to the tray on the table.

Erica sputtered a thank you, trying not to stare even though breastfeeding was one of those eclipse viewing events where it was hard to look away.

There was a short paused that set, broken in part by the sounds of chewing and suckling. And Erica really couldn't help but stare at Malia, putting together all the info she had about her from offhand talks. She knew Malia had dated Stiles for some time, knew that she'd been supportive when they both fell out of love without supplementing it with disgust for one another, knew that she scared the piss out of Stiles when he didn't hear her walking around behind her, and knew that everyone who had her name on their tongue utterly adored her. 

"So what's your fiancé like?" Malia asked. "He's the only one I really haven't met of the Hale pack."

"You'd love Boyd, he's the super hero type out of all of us. We're not really together anymore, I don't think," Erica mused.

"'What do you mean?"

"It's kind of weird," she said through chewing. "We've been together since we got turned and we use to be a lot more in love but, we've grown out of each other in the past year or so. I mean, we'll say we're together and then see other people or he'll go off to see Isaac for six weeks or I'll go and see Cora for a month, and then we don't call each other. And there are entire days where I don't think about him or care if I see him. I love him to death but in a pack way, I'm not in love with him anymore.

"And I don't think he's in love with me, either. I guess it's pretty mutual. I even already gave back his grandmother back the ring but I didn't tell him. I didn't want to hurt him or make him question all of it. I care about him but, I don't want to be his wife," She shuddered at the thought. "Ugh, it's so weird to even say wife, why."

"I can understand that. And I mean I really do," Malia said. "You're going about it a lot better than I did though."

"How'd you and your baby daddy break up?" Erica asked, pulling up a wandering ottoman that had been kicked away from the rocking corner.

"Well," Malia chewed her lip, adjusting her pinched arm under Ellie, hoping somewhere in her brain this wouldn't register as the earliest memory she'd think back to later on in life. "I actually cheated on him."

"Nooo way, this is the first time I'm hearing about this," Erica exclaimed, shifting her elbows to her knees and staring up like it was a campfire story.

"I may…have met up with this girl who we'd gone to high school with who we pretty much saved from death once. Never really had a conversation with her up until that point but she seemed alright. We had some drinks together, she invited me over and I remember assuming we were going to watch a movie and then, next morning woke up in her bed. Didn't really even register what I'd done until about two o'clock in the afternoon because she made me breakfast and kissed me goodbye and it all just felt so great. 

"But I went home to Stiles and he was there and the guilt just kind of hit me too hard. It didn't mean that much to me but I thought it'd crush him. But I still told him, about a day later, and he was excited about it because he had been seeing somebody too. The only difference is that they ended up dating. But he told me and I just started laughing. It was like breathing again, we'd been together way too long and really weren't in love anymore, but it was lucky that it was at the same time for both of us.

"Figured out later than I should have been mad because he was seeing somebody else for a month and a half without telling me. But he really liked him, they broke up maybe a year later but I was just really excited that he was figuring it all out for himself."

"I get that, I feel like me and Boyd might end up the same way. I kind of hope he finds somebody else first," Erica said, twisting from side to side on the Ottoman when she found out it spun. "Is it weird that I pick out people for him sometimes?"

"I do that for Stiles," Malia laughed. "On a daily basis I do that"

"Maybe we could set them up over the holiday," Erica said, not knowing herself if she meant it as a joke or not.


	7. Au; Erica/Allison "She's a fixer upper"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see I wrote this at the beginning of the week, meaning for it to be rare pair and then realized this entire week has been rare pairs for me so go with it.
> 
> Erica fixes robots and the Argents have a mafia, for funsies. I have piece of fiction I’m writing has uses similar language so that’s helped me get in the groove of it again.

There's always some idiotic version of what mechanics really did with the broken robots that wandered in to their shop. Fictitious ramblings on how they repaired a poor out of date personal service model and it ended up having a rave personality. Or the blow up processor of a hotel concierge Droid had a microchip implanted by a mob boss for safe keeping. Or a field study cam tree had evidence of a political murder. The usual.

The more dramatic the more tickets the theatrical adaptation sold. And mostly, Erica really wondered who was experiencing these "true stories" because even after the popularity of personal service droids, the fear of the robot uprising and subsequent stories rang successful. Its like if Herbie was put in to a Nascar race, who is anybody kidding?

Erica, in her three engineering degrees and three and a half star rated repair shop, never fixed anything more complicated than a busted up circuit board. Most morons broke screens or had their robot too close to a microwave. Diagnostic repairs were common too, mostly because a free consultation got people in so they could discover they didn't know shit about their machines. And the think of all the wasted paper printed on for owners manuals.

Still, it beat IT work in a stuffy office and robots had the delightful option of not talking about their day. And even if Erica refused to hire anyone other than an Isaac, the accountant who cooked the books, and a clueless apprentice named Liam to mind her shop on Sundays, she still didn't want to talk to anyone other than a silent robot.

They listened the same way a Barbie doll or dog did. Which meant they didn't. The solitude was comforting.

And Erica would go on most days, talking all about her love of whatever tv show was airing or the opinions she had on whatever politician did something stupid. Sometimes it was complaining about phone calls with her brother or a collection agency.

But often, after the shop closed its doors and she was left there to grind gears or solder closed chest cavities, she would go on to the grossly medical looking robotic experiments and repairs to talk about whatever girl she was dating. A lot of it was the same rambling speech about etiquette over 'girls should call after two days' and 'I can pay for everything when I say I can, why don't girls get that?' and the never ending 'she still has my damn calculus book'.

At times, she liked to go on about customers who came in for consultations and pick ups, how one girl looked so gorgeous that day and how another didn't even seem like she belonged in this part of town or the whole of their conversation was spent half a foot apart with every inch getting shortened. Silly gushy things and long pained sighs.

But mostly, it was complaints.

Like one girl, honestly no more than 23, who looked like she had been doing yoga and zumba for the last seven hours, decked out in peach and white work out gear, not even bothering to take off the sweat band set. She came in for a repair on her personal droid's motor control after a Sunday brunch mishap (apparently it had been throwing bananas and flour while shouting weather reports).

She'd been perfectly nice about it, looking past Erica's bad manners and gum chewing, not even thinking it was important when she left her name.

Because even if Erica and every other quiet-mouthed repair shop dealt with their fair share of the Argent mafia they at least took solace in how up front they'd be, threatening to break jaws and windows right off the bat. But when a cute girl comes in all cavalier with sugar sweet tones saying "my name's Allison Argent by the way. My father has an account open here so you can bill to the listed address", you gotta step back and wonder which of the many goons she's the offspring of.

And when Erica questioned Isaac about it he just snorted through his coffee and asked what she looked like, ignoring the overt phrasing of "crushed walnut shell brown hair and big glass eyes" Erica used.

This client was apparently the current third in the line for the Argent family throne, right after too blood thirsty patriarchs.

And Erica just wanted to eat her up, walnut shells and all. It didn't help that she'd be sweet and every sentence ended with a smile or soft giggle.

So Erica went on and on about her while she fixed the droid. Talked about the way Allison walked with a bounce in her step and the way the cotton of her pants hugged her curves. And then about two hours in, she started doing unnecessary repairs that she wasn't planning on billing just so she had a reason to keep thinking about Allison.

Then the laziness of a weekend came, Liam probably breaking more than he was fixing and then the inevitable phone calls at the end of the day;" the Harrison bot started smoking when I was attaching the knee cap protectors, I'll fix it tomorrow, three packages from Harvey Morgon printing came in, then J. Izobel, Hampton, and Argent picked up their repairs today."

"Wait, Argent? Brunette with really nice lips?" Erica had asked, half way through a pint of milk chocolate chip.

"Yeah, came and went. Didn't really say anything, you didn't leave notes about the repair," Liam stated.

"Aw fuck, I wanted to be there. Whatever, its fine. Get through the Harrison repair tomorrow and call me if you set anything on fire. And you can close early if you get through them," Erica said, picking her teeth with the plastic fork she was eating with, a nervous habit from never having spoons.

And it honestly was fine, what would she do anyway if Allison came back anyway? Organized crime doesn't shine too fondly on queer girls who go after the daughters of mob bosses. Even if Daddy Argent knew Erica by name and liked the way she broke aluminum legs. It was a wasted way of staying entertained.

But then Liam called her again before noon, which the little shit never did because who wakes up before 1pm on a Sunday?

"Hey, boss, um, I wanted to tell you-"

"Fire?"

"Well no..."

"Then wait till five, jesus," She barked, hanging up, still pretty hung over like she was every other Sunday out of the month.

And, right as rain, he called at five, a short bored flurry of, "Finished Harrison's with no fires, got to Darnell and Kubrick. Your brother came by with a package."

"Why? He knows I don't work Sunday."

"He said that is why. And Argent came back around 2pm," Liam finished, obviously reading off a list he had written down.

"Argent? Girl Argent?"

"Yeah, yeah, nice lips,"

"Don't be a pig about it," she scoffs.

"You said it first!"

"What'd she come back for?"

"She wanted to talk to you," he explained, "She was kinda flustered or something."

"Why didn't you call me?," Erica asked.

"Erica, this happened three hours ago. How hung over do you seriously get?"

She waved him off, the gesture lost over the phone. "Yeah yeah, what did she say?"

"Didn't wanna talk about it. Seemed like girl stuff."

"What the hell does that mean? She's a client, how is that girl stuff?"

"I don't know," Liam huffed, tired and cranky. "She was how you get when you're mad."

"How do I get when I'm mad?" Erica asked, baiting him to answer.

Liam just paused, gritting his teeth and not daring to open his mouth to validate an obvious trap. "I told her to come back tomorrow. Can I go home?"

"Yeah, yeah. Lock the garbage chute before you leave," Erica said before hanging up, not bothering with an replying goodbye.

-

It didn't make much sense for Allison to show up again and Erica spent the who goddamned night wracking her brain trying to think up reasons why she would. The repair job went perfectly, even the unnecessary tune ups and internal cleanings (dust collection could be the early death of a bot or droid, after all). And the professional connection she had with the second in line Argent, who was practically an Archduke or Baron with the power he held, didn't seem like something his daughter would want to intrude on.

But all the same, the little Dame Argent walked in to Erica's shop for the third time, more guarded than before but just as sure of herself as the first time. And unlike that first time, she classed up a bit, dressing up in a smart sun dress and leather coat, full red lips, and a nice fancy up-do. She managed to look even more out of place in the neighborhood this go around.

She coughed a little 'ahem' on her way through the door, clattering with the automatic bell and got Erica's attention while she had been elbow deep in the sink cleaning off body wax and touch up grease.

The suds still clung to the sides of Erica's dirty apron and rolled up plaid sleeves. She eyed Allison up and down, grinning to herself with kind of slant that tended to make other people uncomfortable.

"You forget your white gloves, ma'am?" She asked, drying off her hands and pulling her hair in to a loose tail, stretching a pink rubber band to hold her curls in place.

Allison pulled her lips in out of nervous habit, pursing them back out in to a smile, and started, "Miss Reyes-"

"Only the old men call me Miss. Erica is fine," she corrected, calm as ever and enjoying the rare conversation with someone under the age of 40 who was also nice to look at.

"Ok," Allison breathed out, "Erica. I'm sorry to stop by again."

"You did stop by yesterday as my underling told me," Erica chided, acting clueless and snarky. "He said you were a bit 'flustered', his word choice not mine. Didn't say what you actually came by for."

Allison relaxed, dropping the tension in her shoulders that seemed amplified by the small bit of padding in her coat. It was surprising that such disrespect calmed her, almost appeased her. And she held the corner mouth grin that made it look like she was amused.

"It was about Sofie…the droid I brought in on Friday," Allison began to explain, trailing off again as she waited for Erica to interrupt her. She seemed less flustered, like the switch in her head went from panicked to content quicker than a light bulb.

"The droid you brought in. Sofie? Is there something wrong? I did that repair myself, I'm the only one who touches any of the Argent bots that come through here," Erica explained. "Liam's work would start a feud between us."

"No no, I know you did the work yourself," Allison said, the lightest tint of red rising out of her cheeks. She tried so hard to lead the conversation but it was obvious she was used to being trampled on in discussions.

"So was there problem?" Erica asked, rustling through papers at the register (a broken machine they kept keys in) to make herself look busy, all the while leaning in over the counter top.

Allison brought her hand up to the level of her brow, scratching the dead center space above her nose. And then she was out with it, blurting out at lightening speed.

"You know that there are security chips in all out droids, right?" She finally asked.

Erica blinked and then squinted, asking, "What…kind of security chips?"

"The Roll T, or something. It switches on an audio recording feed when a droid loses power," Allison explained, drawing in a nervous breath.

"Oh…." Erica muttered, mentally putting together pieces, "Oh. So you…"

"Yeah," Allison replied, the excitement gone out of her voice.

"Your dad and his goons never mentioned that when they brought in stuff for repair… Is that why…"

"I think it might be," Allison said, nodding along.

"That's, yeah, yeah. So…why did you come back?"

"What?"

"I'm assuming you didn't laugh it off like they did. Were you…I don't know, coming here to chew me out?

"No! God no, not at all," Allison put her hands up, appalled by the thought. "I, uh, you made some…I thought you knew and were saying it on purpose…"

"You…thought I was hitting on you…through a droid's security system?" Erica squinted and grinned.

"No!...no, well, a little," Allison laughed. "Seems pretty silly now."

"Silly is you coming here twice to try and tell me about it," Erica said. "And, y'know, those yoga pants were pretty damn flattering."

"You mentioned that, for a good hour," Allison pointed out, leaning against the counter top and looking down at her hands.

Erica stared her down for a moment, really thinking about her it before she bit the bullet, "You wanna go out for a drink?"

Interests piqued, Allison looked up and met Erica's glare.

"Down town my brother, we're not blood related so it's not really known, has a bar, Hale Fire. Your family's pretty much banned so we can pretty much get as close as we want without getting interrupted," Erica said, honey dripping off of every word.

"I'd like that," Allison replied, quietly like it didn't matter, hiding how excited it got her with the hair on her arms standing up underneath her coat. She couldn't help but smile, reaching over to the cup of pens by the broken register and pulling out a rollerball and pad of old sticky notes.

"This is my private number," she said, scratching down numbers and then peeling it off, sticking it to the counter table facing Erica. She leaned in close and with a dirty emphasis that she was still nervous talking in, said, "Call me Any. Time. You. Like."

"Sure thing, princess," Erica said, more vulgar than she intended.

**Author's Note:**

> If theres typos then theres typos


End file.
